


Cleaning

by Emberglade



Category: Pocket Mortys, Rick and Morty
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Alternate Mortys - Freeform, Alternate Ricks - Freeform, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, One Shot, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self Harm, THERES A LOT OF RAPE STUFF, Unhealthy Coping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emberglade/pseuds/Emberglade
Summary: He  feels dirty. He's always dirty. When will he be clean?





	Cleaning

Morty watched his grandfather from the other side of the room as he paced back and forth in the garage, his hands wrapped together and his face contorted in a mixture of pain and anguish. Rick looked him up and down, almost painfully, and turned back to his work, screwdriver in hand. He seemed to tune out the soft pitter patter of his grandson’s feet on the concrete. Morty stopped. “R- Rick? I’m going to my room.”  
  
He grunted lightly in response and kept working, not paying any attention to the look Morty shot back at him or the shuddering breaths he was taking. He simply kept working. Heart pounding in his ears, the teen walked up the stairs to his bedroom, tears threatening to spill and body shaking.  
  
_“There’s no point in -urp- fighting it. You’ll like this”_  
  
_Disgusting. It’s so disgusting the way he uses me like this._  
  
_“Let me try something new.”_  
  
_Filthy. I’m so filthy._  
  
Morty closed his door softly and locked it. His breathing was fast, and his body felt flushed and hot, as if his skin was getting tighter and tighter and his bones were about to become exposed. Too close… Too close to his body. Yes, his skin was much too close to his body. He frowned and pressed his hands to his stomach, willing it to stop flipping, turning, and groaning. His feet, his palms, the back of his neck, all of it was slick with perspiration. The male’s eyes were blown wide and staring at the fraying carpet, and his lip was tugged between his teeth.  
  
_“It won't even hurt.”_  
  
He sank to the floor, knees pulled up to his chest and his shoulders hunched. It was as if he was trying to melt into himself and become invisible. But he could never be invisible. He would never disappear.  
  
_“Don’t talk back to me! I give you everything! Without me your grandpa would be dead!”_  
  
Tears were pouring from his eyes, soaking his jeans and forcing him to sob and heave. He was crying again. Why the hell was he crying? Morty looked around the dark room for his phone, which wasn’t in sight. He needed music, needed escape. Tears streaming down his young and red face, he lifted t-shirts and jeans and books searching for it, only to find the device buzzing under his bed. He picked it up with shaking hands and looked at the caller ID warily. Z-1229 calling… His breath caught in his throat. He swallowed it and answered.  
  
_“It’s not an excuse.”_  
  
“H- Hello?” He mumbled the word softly, even though he knew it was like softly placing a grenade in the middle of a room. Pointless. Regardless of how you go about it you get the same consequence, yet for some reason one still does it that way.  
  
“Where are you?” It wasn’t a question. A sickening feeling crawled into his stomach like a spider laying eggs in his corpse.  
  
“M- My room.” He frowned. He wanted to listen to music, to escape. Not to be here. He needed to get away, to claw the feeling out of his flesh. This disgusting feeling.  
  
A portal opened in front of him, and Morty’s instincts forced him to scramble back with fear. He wasn't safe. Shaking, his gripped the phone to his ear still. Z-1229 stepped through, glaring. His eyes weren’t the clear, crisp blue of his own Rick’s. These eyes were cold, dark, and grey.  
  
The other man hung up the phone. Morty watched his movements, how slow and rigid they were, like he was a robot. The device was slipped into his lab coat, and Morty was stared at, examined, in the most sickening way possible. He swallowed his bile and forced a smile. “Z…” He looked up with wide, brown eyes, trying to look happy.  
  
_You can’t be happy._  
  
He got no response, just a hand grabbing the front of his shirt and a panic attack. He shook harder as he was pulled up, examined like raw meat as he was face to face with the man that looked like grandpa.  
  
“You better be glad you a-arg-ren’t injured. You’re coming with me.” The Rick had a raspy, dead voice, akin to that of a zombie. The bags under his eyes and the alcohol on his breath didn’t bode well. He was hungover, angry, and probably hungry. Not for food, but for something so much more.  
  
“What about-” Morty’s mouth snapped shut like a slow reflex.  
  
“Don’t ask questions. You’re coming with me.” The Rick dragged him into the portal, not even giving him a chance to protest. “We have places to be, Ricks to defeat." Morty just nodded, knowing the consequences of arguing were a lot less pleasant than usual treatment.  
  
The Rick let go of his collar, causing him to cough and choke as air rushed back into his lungs. He stumbled as he attempted to stand up straight and follow his Rick.

The thing about abuse is that’s it’s a fickle thing that twists itself and makes you into the wrong one. The thing about abuse is that it can’t just be abuse to you. Morty knew this as Z-1229 motioned for him to come sit in his lap. He knew this when Z hit him when he failed. The thing about abuse is that it gets worse and worse. And Morty forgets this, ignores this so very important fact. He pretends that this isn’t what’s happening. He pretends that he’s helping a sick man get better, when really the sick man is getting sicker.  
  
Abuse is silly and fickle like that. And sometimes abuse comes rushing back to you in horrible sickening waves as you sit on your bedroom floor eating ice cream like it did to Morty.  
  
_“I swear to god, just beat him up! It’s not that hard!” Z-1229 smacked him in the back of the head, sending Morty reeling to the ground and feeling sick. He shook and tears streamed down his face but he stayed silent and in place._  
  
_“Why can’t you do it?” A shoe hit him in the spine. A sickness rose in his body, but since he didn’t want to spew jizz and orange juice on the ground in front of him, he had to swallow whatever bile was coming up. He placed his left arm in front of him while the right one wrapped around his stomach. Vodka bottles littered the ground around his body, and he knew that just from touching the ground he was covered in cigarette ashes. The entire house smelled like Sage incense and cigars, on top of other smells. His head reeled._  
  
_Hot breath brushed his ear as the Rick leaned over, one hand gently rested on his spine and the other on his shoulder. “Answer me. Now.” A hard, cold, spine wrenching sensation went through the teenager's body._  
  
_Morty, shaking still, turned around and looked at him with tears in his eyes. “H- He was so weak already! I c- c- couldn’t just ki- beat up an innocent Rabbit Morty… Especially not… one I k- know like that…” he looked down, ashamed and prepared for punishment._  
  
_Z-1229 simply stood up and made a portal, pointing at it. “Get out.” He looked away, face stone, dark, and swimming with disappointment._  
  
_Morty stood with all the shame in the world strapped on to his back. He looked down at the maroon carpet as he walked through the portal, watching it fade into the cream one of his own bedroom._  
  
He was heaving and panting as he came out of the memory, his ice cream spilled on the floor and his stomach sick. His hands had become attached to his head and his nails were biting into his skin.  
  
Slowly, the teenager removed his hands from his head and looked at them fearfully. He felt like he was covered in a layer of grime, like a towel that had been used over and over but not washed, merely left to sit on the floor of the bathroom collecting moisture for weeks. Frowning, he stood up and half-walked, half-stumbled to the bathroom, abandoning the ice cream on the floor.  
  
His clothes were constricting on his body, and he felt like he had been wearing them too long, like they were suffocating him. Flicking on the bathroom light, he shakily closed the door quietly and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were sunken in and rimmed with darkness, and Morty could feel his throat tighten with tears.  
  
He still felt dirty. He would always be dirty. He crouched and opened the cabinet under the sink, grabbing his own loofa and wash that was cramped in the corner next to all of Summer’s stuff. He felt a dull knife make it's home in his chest as he briefly wondered if Summer would miss his stuff being in the way if he died, or if she would be thankful for the space, before he silently chided himself in thinking that way. He wasn’t going to die. Not on purpose, at least.  
  
Staring into nothing, still crouched, Morty wondered what it would be like to die, and how would people react to his death. He wasn’t sure. He hoped that they would cry for him.  
  
He stood and began to run the shower, turning it on to the hottest setting. His fourth-grade teacher once told him that 160 degrees kills all bacteria and, while Rick had completely discredited that fact, Morty liked to believe that hot showers are the cleanest thing he can do aside from baking himself in an oven. Lord knows he needed cleaning. He was filthy and disgusting. So absolutely disgusting.  
  
Morty, hands shaking, stripped and looked at his naked body in the mirror. The first thing he saw was the bruises. Littering his body, they kissed him like little devils, leaving angry purple marks that seared his flesh just by being looked at. He frowned and prodded at one, wincing. The second thing was the hickies. They were like the bruises, almost indistinguishable if one hadn’t been there to witness their creation. They splattered his chest and shoulders, just below his t-shirt. His frown deepened, and this time a few tears threatened to spill with it. He swallowed them alongside his feelings.  
  
Diverting his attention from his bruises, Morty looked at the rest of himself. He looked disgusting, a pitiful and broken boy standing alone and naked in a bathroom that was beginning to steam. For some odd reason, the sight of himself, specifically naked, was making him nauseous. He turned his head from the mirror in disgust.  
  
Slowly, he walked into the shower and stood under the hot water, not even wincing as he did so. He still felt like he was covered in layer after layer of grime, so the young teen began to wash. He covered the loofa in his body wash, lathering it up before forcefully running it over his chest. It burned, and that satisfied Morty, so he did a similar motion over again. Before he even knew it, he was forcefully scrubbing into his chest over and over, pressing as hard as possible and striking quickly.  
  
He slowed his pace and looked down at his chest. Even though he felt like maggots were crawling all over his body, he appeared clean. Frowning, he touched the now raw and red skin. It stung a little, but still felt gross. Regardless, he moved on to his left arm, and then right.  
  
He performed a similar motion on the rest of his body, even his genitals. He felt nasty even thinking about them, but they felt the dirtiest. They felt like they had been dipped in mud and then given a coating of manure. Frowning, Morty attempted to clean them until they burned. But he still felt unbelievably dirty.  
  
Morty’s theory was that he just had to scrub his body again, and so he did. In fact, he had scrubbed so hard on some parts that his skin had rubbed away, becoming raw, and a few areas even bled. He still felt dirty, but the hot water had run out and he was standing in the cold, raw, and burning. Plus, he was tired. Stepping out of the now quiet shower, he numbly wrapped a towel around his waist. Morty gathered his clothes in his arms and padded down the silent hallway, leaving his wash out and the light on. He was too numb to notice.  
  
When he arrived at his room, he threw the clothes on the floor and found some he could wear to bed in his dresser. A simple white t-shirt that he was pretty sure once belonged to Rick draped over his body and reached his knees. He smiled faintly and looked around his room, suddenly driven crazy by the clutter and the mess.  
  
Slowly, he began to clean, picking up and moving and rearranging. He wished it weren’t one in the morning, or he’d be vacuuming every single crumb out of the carpet. He cleaned up the ice cream, put the laundry in the bin, and finally got around to making his bed. He still didn’t feel clean, but it was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> I lost most of my motivation so this is a one shot, sorry!


End file.
